My Man Crush & the Holy Trinity of Cycling

Back of Cavendish, Full-On Fabian 2010 TOC

You’ve seen the video, heard the stories and all of sudden Sasquatch’s thick matted fur is all up in your grill so close you crinkle your nose and squint your eyes at the Yeti stench.  Yeah.  Mmmph.  You urk back a little puke and say to yourself, “That’s a beautiful Big Foot.”  Seeing Fabian Cancellara and Tom Boonen up close is sort of like seeing Sasquatch, only you’ve never stood on the couch cushions shouting as Sasquatch grits his teeth and pounds the pedals under the red kite with the contorted faces of those he’s dropping in view between his 4 day beard and his shoulder.  I saw Boonen, Cancellara and Hincapie together last year at the tour of California.  My wife blasted me for my giddiness as I angled the camera to capture all three in the same photo.  To her I looked like a tween snapping photos at a Justin Bieber concert.  To me, I was witnessing a cycling holy trinity. 

Stay Thirsty My Friends

Quite a few women read this blog.  While some of you may want to have mad wild Belgian/Swiss RV sex with Tomeke or Fabian after the finish of this weekend’s E3 and Gent-Wevelgem, man crushes are nothing like that.  Let it be clear, I do not want to boom with Boonen.  I don’t want Cancellara to wear my ring on a chain around his neck.  A man crush is nothing sexual or gay.  A man crush is something of appreciation, like seeing the perfection in the Brawny paper towel guy’s beard, admiring the timelessness of Dos Equis’ Most Interesting Man in the World, or the suaveness of the Old Spice guy.  Advertisers are well aware of this.  Dos Equis, Brawny and Old Spice would be out of business if a video ever surfaced of Heidi Klum cleaning the bathroom counter with a Brawny paper towel, a Dos Equis beer in the other hand and a stick of Old Spice in view on the cabinet. 

Beautiful, yes.  But, what The hell Am I looking at?

The emotion behind a man crush is why grown men’s mouths gape and eyes rise in wonder at the cornerstone of the Empire State Building.  It’s why men marvel at the bland smooth concrete massiveness of the Hoover Dam and insist on “popping the hood” and peering at the engine of a Ferrari.  It has nothing to do with understanding the engineering principals behind these wonders.  It’s simply the sight of pure blunt-force perfection.    It’s man beauty.

Stoic Boonen 2010 Tour of California

I think that’s what I see in Boonen and Cancellara.  I saw both of them in person, together at the start of the Big Bear state of the Tour of California.  Boonen, minutes later would drop out of the race.  Cancellara would be pack fodder.  It didn’t matter.  Like the great pyramids and Notre Dame Cathedral, their cache of wins and hard-guy moments earns them a timeless respect.   Conversely Frank Schleck winning the Criterium International did nothing for me.

Autonearbyu Syndrome: How To Lose Schababerle

Schababerle, the 2nd race in the Ohio Valley Spring Road Series is this weekend.  Here's a summary of survival for those making the trip to this spring classic climb in Northern Kentucky.


Autonearbyu Syndrome:

The incessant urge to quit every time your sniveling broken body passes your car at the intersection of California Cross and Rt. 10.

Toasters:

The crowd of people along the last pitch of the climb who have done this race enough to never do it again and have resorted to heckling your sorry ass as you deliver the mail.

El Perro De Tres Patas

The legendary three legged dog of Schababerle lives along the descent back to California Cross.  Unlike Ghost Dog who lives on Rt. 8 between Mentor and Silver Grove, at least you’ll see El Tres coming.  The issue is, at this point, you’ve finally caught your breath from the climb and closing gaps in the crosswind and all you want to do is chill in the pack.  It’s the perfect spot for El Tres to get a jump on eating you.  Think of it like this.  Ghost Dog comes out of nowhere, from behind another team’s unseen lead out train like Robbie McEwen.  El Tres attacks are as conspicuous as a bag of leaves in a windstorm, much like Cadel Evans.  You’ll see and hear him well before he gets you.  However, because you’re just getting your eyesight back from being over your lactate threshold for the last 20 minutes, you’re easy pickin’s.  El Tres doesn’t come out ever year.  Judging from the fact that he barely raises his head sometimes, it’s been rumored that El Tres has been high on doggy Ritalin from time to time.  El Tres will never die.  If he does there’s no shortage of three-leggers in Kentucky to take his place.

God-schooled-ya:

Realizing that Godzulla, the diabolical founder of this race with the tattoo arm warmers in the mis-matched Xavier kit who attacked from the gun on Rt. 10 just to mess with you, finished in front of you.  (See Fat Boy 10 Attack)

The Fat Boy 10 Attack

From the start at Flintlocks, with 5 or 6 times up the beast in your future, you’d think it’d be a rather mellow ride up Schababerle at least the first time, at least until the toaster, at least until the first pitch.  Nuh-uh.


If you’re unfamiliar with the toaster, Schababerle is actually a nice scenic climb with two slight stretches of quad relieving lulls on the way up.  The toaster is the last pitch to the tippy top.  When you get there it will feel like riding down and into a BMX style half pipe. Then you’ll realize it’s bigger than anything you’ve seen on the X-Games.  Frantically you’ll dump it into your lowest gear.  If you don’t drop your chain shifting from your 53-17 to your 39-27 at the wrong moment, you’ll soon find yourself looking at your cassette thinking that you brought the wheel with the 12-23.  


That said, no doubt, a slightly grizzly looking dude in an unfamiliar kit will attack well before the base of the climb on Rt. 10.  You’ll write him off as a big boy trying to get a jump on the climb and let him go.  He will be followed by three or four others thinking that his effort to get his caboose on the climb before everyone else is a good idea.  However, 5 guys up the road in different kits tends to make the alarm bells go off, especially knowing that the right turn into Schababerle and the first left on the climb will stretch the pack into a long 2-3 rider wide line.  No matter how you cut it, you’ll be following multiple attacks and be on the edge of crying for mama between bouts of the pukes before your Garmin even registers a change in elevation. 

Hell Hole:

The port-a-poddy along the backstop by the Flintlocks softball field that’s been there all winter and just beginning to thaw.  Guy tip: remove your sunglasses from your helmet before peeing.  Girl tip: invest in a Bumper Dumper.

“Sin” Ders

If you bought brand new road tires for the season, take them off your bike now.  Obviously you’ve never ridden in Mentor, KY in March.  You see, they don’t use salt on the roads here in winter.  Calcium chloride and beat juice are for pussy-towns like Cincinnati.  There’s a giant coal power plant just down the river.  When the coal is burned, cinders are the result.  It’s burnt up coal, what is referred to as coal ash.  Questionably biodegradable, it’s a wonderful thing.  It doesn’t really melt ice or snow.  Instead, being much like teeny tiny shards of black glass, they spread it on the roads.  It embeds itself into the tires of cars, essentially turning them into studded tires.  Brilliant!  It works exactly the same way with bike tires.  Only, your tires are .7 mm thick.  Suddenly those brand new Conti GP 4000 S’s have a hundred cuts on them.  Inside each cut is a microscopic black piece of glass.  If you don’t pull them all out after the race you’ll get flats for weeks.  My best advice: put your crappy-old out-of-fashion light blue Michelin tires on.  The best thing you can do is avoid the "black sand" and every time you hear a rider say “gravel” imagine them saying “glass.”  Throw your tires away after the race.

Indiana:

The state of residence for the winner of your race whose jersey you’ve never seen in your life.

Home Mechanic: Magic Juice May Outlast Patience

"Magic Juice" Should Be On Every Bike Workbench

Riddle me this.  You have a good sized credit card limit, a new brake cable, a u-shaped thingy, a brake spring, a 3-month gym membership including unlimited spin classes, and a bottle of penetrating oil that the mechanic at your local bike shop refers to affectionately as magic juice.  In what order do you use these tools to fix a 2004 Campagnolo Record front brake two weeks before Christmas when the high temperature is in the single digits?

Answer: Not in the order I did it.

Two weeks ago Blue Legs and her gorgeous, intelligent, super fit teammate, who looks like she’s in her mid 20’s set out for a Saturday ride.  It was a quick but hilly loop on a Northern Kentucky rolling favorite, Amsterdam Road.  Prior to bombing Amsterdam’s descent back down to the Ohio River, non-Blue Leg's front brake broke. 

Blue Legs

They pulled over.  The lever was in need of Viagra, limp and lifeless.  A broken cable, she reasoned.  Being the super velo-genius that she is, she opened the brakes so the pads wouldn’t rub the rim and continued the ride sans front brake.  She deftly navigated the tight dropping curves of the Amsterdam descent scrubbing just enough speed to keep her safe but fast enough to stay with her teammate.  When my wife arrived home, she gave me the news.

MISTAKE #1:

See That Spring Behind The Brake?

I checked it out.  The lever felt dead, but still moved the brake a bit.  Maybe there’s a thread hanging on, but I agreed with her diagnosis.  She asked what she needed from the shop and the next day picked up a new front brake cable, a new front derailleur cable, and enough housing to complete the job.  My reasoning, always replace the housing with the cable.  Since you have to pull back the bar tape to replace housing, you may as well replace both cables and housing.  It’s a cheap fix.  Both she and I were bursting with pride about her mechanical prowess. 

What was my mistake?  Yes!  I did not pull the old cable out to see if in fact it was broken till after we spent $20 on new cables and housing.  To my amazement, when I pulled the old cable, it was in perfect shape, not even corroded or frayed in any way.  Son of a…

MISTAKE #2:

So, why doesn’t the brake work?  Squeezing the lever and watching the brake, I discovered the horror.  Oh.  Oh no.  The tension spring broke!  In fact it was missing all together, ‘cept for the little piece still pressed into the brake itself.  The little “u” shaped thing that holds the spring against the tension adjustment screw was gone as well.  Being the best husband in the world and reasoning that I could still ride my cross or mountain bike, I put the Sram Red brake from my road bike on hers and went to work on a permanent fix that didn’t involve our credit limit.

I pulled up diagrams of 2004 Record Brakes on the Campy website, found the part numbers and ordered a new spring and “u” shaped thingy from BioWheels in Madeira via email.  She bowed to my superior mechanical prowess, made me a fantastic Indian dinner and fetched my slippers. 

In 2-3 days she picked the new parts up at the shop.  I installed them, but the spring still wasn’t functioning correctly.  I spun around in circles and screamed like a frustrated George Costanza on Seinfeld.  The pads would close, but not spring back open.  Something was seized in there. 

What was mistake #2?  I never stopped to think of why a tension spring would break.  As strong as she is I doubt she grabbed a mitt full of front brake and snapped the spring.  Things on bikes usually break for one of the following reasons: a crash, neglect, misuse, neglect, they are the weakest link in larger problem, neglect, fatigue over time or neglect.  But seriously, who takes their road brakes apart and relubes the moving parts?  Crazy Italian mechanics far superior than I, that’s who.  I got down on my knees, told her I was sorry for neglecting her bike, made her a fabulous salad dinner and fetched her slippers.

MISTAKES #3, 4 and 5

By now, nearly two weeks had passed since the incident with Blue Legs.  We had a few errands to run, so we stopped in to see our favorite Campy mechanic, John Wood at Reser Bikes in Newport.  Surely he could help.  He’s like a Campagnolo savant.

John wasn’t in, but the mechanic on duty confirmed my thought.  The brake was seized and wouldn’t move on the main pivot.  He suggested hitting the pivot points with penetrating oil that Mr. Wood called magic juice over a day or two and see if it breaks free.

With Dexter serial killer-like determination to put this beast to death, I bought a bottle of the magic juice and bathed the brake Saturday night, Sunday morning, Sunday night, Monday morning, Monday night.  Each time I tried to turn the allen screw, nothing.  However, on Tuesday morning, now two days past two weeks into the ordeal, it broke free.  Harps played.  Animated blue Disney birdies flew and whistled over my head.  An evil laugh echoed throughout the man-cave.

Finally Fixed

While excited, I realized my third, fourth and fifth mistakes. 

3) I inadvertently left three little parts on the counter at the bike shop.  So I have another trip to make before I can say for sure that the brake is fixed.

4) The day prior, Monday afternoon, after reasoning that the six year old components were going to start nickel and diming us, I pulled the trigger on the Howitzer and ordered Record 11 Levers, brakes, derailleurs, a chain, a cassette and chainrings.  I used the credit limit to fix what the new parts and magic juice accomplished for $26.50. 

5) I should’ve read the label on the Magic Juice.  I’m sure it says, “Warning: Magic Juice may take longer to work than your patience will allow.”

Summer Face

The neighbor's lillies already have flowers and stand at least a foot tall.  However, I think they cheated and went to the garden store over the weekend.  Tulips two doors down are a few inches taller than their faded mulch.  The red leaflets on our rosebushes grew an inch in the last for or five days.  I can tell already the 10 or so new rose bushes that line the back privacy fence will be spectacular this year.  My cyclist summer face is starting to come in too. 

Winter this year was tough.  It was a full winter, like the ones I remember in Wisconsin, from mid December to early March, schloppy, grey and biting cold.  I’ve lived here now for nearly 10 years and this has been the harshest winter yet.  Usually Cincinnati is blessed with a sprinkling of freak days that reach 50 and 60 degree temperatures in January and February to keep cyclists from slitting their wrists with a rusty spoke.  Not this year.  It was a winter where the time it took to get dressed and undressed for a ride took as long or longer than the amount if time you could survive on a ride.  Winter tested training creativity.  I found a mix of spin classes, frozen mountain bike trail riding, garage iPod trainer sessions, trail work, running, core work and a few winter hikes kept the scale from tipping in the direction that causes Biggest Loser contestants to point fingers when facing elimination.  However, I don’t think I lost more than a pound till daylight savings time and the 40-50-60 degree blanket settled over Cincinnati for good.

Yesterday a coworker commented, “You losing weight?  I can see your cheekbones.”  I’ve been waiting for that.  It felt good, like when my grandma in her shaky soft voice says, “Ooh Joseph you’re so skinny.”  Skinny for a family with its roots in the Milwaukee brewing business I guess.  One grandfather ran a tavern, the other worked at Pabst.   My other grandmother worked at Continental Can Company.  Check the beer cans in your collection for the CCC logo. 

I can see myself in the screen of the laptop right now.  I should take a Skype picture.  But, more than the way my cheekbones look, I like the way they feel.  Washing my face after shaving, I can feel the knuckles under my hollowing eyes.  The edge of my chin feels as edgy and rigid as the bottom of a mayonnaise jar.  Still round, but on it's way to chiseled.  My temples feel as if they were scooped with serving spoon.  Summer face.

On my new Kuota KOM I hung with the big-boy climbers on Dry Run and Kugler Mill last night, two 8-10 minute climbs.  102% of lactate threshold on the ticker-o-meter was sustainable.  It ticked to 105 when someone punched it on the last riser.  I recovered quickly.  Fitness is budding.  Along with the first races, the farmer tan is around the corner.  These are the real signs of spring.  

Being The Office Bike Bitch Ain't Bad

I’m the token bike bitch.  Wherever you work, I’m sure you’re the go-to person for bike related advice and services.  I’ve adjusted more Huffy headsets and Diamond Back flats than I can count.  Every spring there’s no shortage of coworkers who ask me to give their kids’ bikes a little once over.  I’ve earned stripes at BioWheels Bike Shop for extra referral business which now and then add up to wink-wink nod-nod privileges with shop supplies.  Once, I even dispelled cycling dating advice.  A colleague wanted to go for a short bike ride with his athletic date, so I sent him up to Loveland where you can ride the path along the Little Miami River and finish it off with a good sandwich and coffee.  Never heard how that turned out, but I’m glad I can help.    Not only does it build good rapport with coworkers, it’s the fringe benefits that I like best.  There’s a handy guy in our building that’s into riding Harley Davidson motorcycles.  We struck up a conversation about “bikes” and I ended up trading him a leather anniversary edition Harley jacket I had won in a raffle for a bench top vice.  Best trade I ever made.  Free lunch is always a favorite, and I take advantage of these situations to get yummy goodies from some of my favorite Cincinnati haunts like Giminetti’s and Izzy’s.  Some coworkers even swag me with gift cards for Speedway, Target and Kroger.  Being the office bike bitch also bestows little treasures upon me, like this broken 400 pound Suntour 7 speed cassette, which makes for great office décor and a nifty pen holder.